


Scars

by ValkyriaRising



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A reminder that while apologizing doesn't make what happened okay, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Closure, Crying, Dorian's bad at being stealthy, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Healing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emprise du Lion (Dragon Age), Fighting wolves to feel something, Flashbacks, Free Marches (Dragon Age), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Kissing, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Men Crying, Mild Blood, Nosy Inquisition scouts, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Scars, Self Destructive Tendancies, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Shirtless Inquisitor, Skyhold (Dragon Age), Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age), it can make it easier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 12:11:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19334296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValkyriaRising/pseuds/ValkyriaRising
Summary: Scars are the ghosts left behind by old wounds. Damien is haunted. Dorian shows him how to heal.





	1. Rumors

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a 5 part series I wrote back at the beginning of the year about Damien's struggles. I decided to just compile it into one 5 chapter piece instead, rather than having 5 separate one shots. If you feel like you've read any of this before, you may have, I just decided to put them all in one place for organizations sake. 
> 
> I'll put appropriate warnings at the beginning of each chapter, as these chapters often address some pretty heavy and personal issues. Smut will also be indicated accordingly. Enjoy! -Valk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damien has his fair share of scars. Dorian's curiosity gets the better of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None

Dorian had seen his fair share of shirtless men in his time.

He always tried not to stare and was successful  _most_ of the time, but sometimes he did a double take—for various reasons, of course. This time, it was because the man he had dragged into his library alcove and kissed, the man who had convinced him to stay and talk to his father to get some closure, and the man who had gotten drunk with him when he was hurting was standing in front of him now with his shirt off.

To be fair it  _was_ warm outside—a rarity given how deep in the Frostback Mountains Skyhold was situated—and the fact that this was the Inquisitor’s room; he could do damn well whatever he wanted. But upon ascending the stairs, Dorian hadn’t considered being met with this particular view once he had reached the top, his eyes falling on a shirtless Damien standing in front of his desk, the doors to the balconies open, letting the warm breeze in.

The mage was quick to let his eyes wander across the taut muscles and scarred, freckled skin of Damien’s back before he was caught staring. He wanted to feel them move against his skin, feel the power they held—

“You’re looking at me like I’m about to disappear into thin air.”

Busted.

Damien looked up from whatever papers he was holding, glancing over his shoulder before putting them down on his desk and turning toward the Tevinter mage. Dorian almost missed the small, playful smile that had graced Damien’s lips as he moved.

“Given recent events, I can’t say that would be too unusual,” Dorian replied in stride with a shrug, careful not to trip over his words and forcing himself to meet Damien’s warm gaze. “We did time travel, after all.”

“Got me there,” the Inquisitor replied with an amused huff, crossing his muscular arms across his chest and leaning against his desk. “Did you need something?”

“Not if you’re busy.”

“I’m always busy these days, but anything for you.”

Those words made warmth bubble up in Dorian’s chest and he had to push it down, not wanting to become  _too_ hopeful—Damien was the Inquisitor and Dorian was just a mage from Tevinter. The mage had already heard whisperings around the halls about them and while rumors never bothered him, he worried what it would do to Damien reputation, but if the Inquisitor had heard anything of the sort, he hadn’t said a word, much less let it bother him, it seemed.

“I found myself lacking a book to read and came to see if you had any recommendations.”

“None of the books in the library catching your fancy, or have you read them all already,” Damien teased, pushing himself off of his desk and moving to the other side towards the bookshelves that lined the walls behind his chair. Dorian watched him move, nearly forgetting to reply when the Inquisitor reached up, the muscles on his back rippling with the movement.

“I figured if they gave anyone the  _good_ books it would be you.”

That gave the Inquisition’s new leader pause and he lowered his arm, seemingly to have remembered something, instead turning towards his desk and bending down. Opening the bottom drawer, he pulled something out, popping back up with a thick, leather-bound book in hand, flipping through the worn pages for a moment before kicking the drawer closed.

“I found it buried in the sand in the basement of Coracavus while we were poking around looking for the source of the darkspawn in the Western Approach,” Damien said as he handed it off to Dorian, smiling slightly at the mage’s eagerness when he took it out of the warrior’s hands. “I meant to give it to you once I finished it a few days ago. It has some… interesting takes on ancient Tevinter that I’m sure you’ll have an opinion or two on.”

“I suppose I am rather opinionated, aren’t I?” The mage meant for that sentence to come out playfully, but his tone leaned more towards dejection, unsure of whether the man in front of him meant it as an observation or a criticism.

“It’s not a bad thing. It’s cute when you passionately ramble about your homeland—and it keeps me on my toes, at any rate,” Damien reassured, sensing Dorian’s crestfallen tone, noting (with some satisfaction) the change in Dorian’s posture when the compliment left his mouth. “You’re welcome to stay. The chaise is unoccupied and I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Dorian only had presence of mind enough to nod in response, slightly flustered at the offer (which was unusual for him), but grateful nonetheless. He quickly settled onto the plush couch, quietly criticizing the decor in the room before flipping the book open, noting the yellowing pages and torn corners, careful to leaf through the pages gently.

The Tevinter scion had always prided himself on his ability to focus. He could sit and read an entire novella with every possible distraction going on around him and still comprehend every word he read. It’s part of why he was so talented, after all—the ability to block everything out around him had helped immensely while studying magical theories and coming up with magical theories of his own, but today, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t focus.

The breeze filtering through the open windows, the soft echoing of the collision of swords from the courtyard below, the rustling of feathers as Leliana’s messenger ravens came and went with notes to and from the Inquisitor—it was the most peaceful and the quietest their lives had been in months, he realized.

Dorian also realized he was far too aware of Damien moving on the opposite side of the room and had to force himself to keep his eyes on the words in front of him, though he couldn’t help, but glance up every now and then, quietly drinking in the sight of the Inquisitor at work. Dorian watched in silent amusement every time Damien’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to make out Cullen’s chicken scratch or every time the ginger unsuccessfully searched through the paper’s scattered on his desk for his quill to write a note to himself or to Josephine.

From there, the mage couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering, letting them slip down over the ginger’s strong shoulders and across the expanse of his chest, realizing as his eyes progressed that Damien had freckles _everywhere_.

_I wonder how far down th-_

-but before the mage could even finish the thought, he dismissed it—again not wanting to be  _too_ hopeful.

In contrast, Dorian realized that the warrior also had a fair share of scars littering his skin as well, criss-crossing his shoulders down his sides and back. His eyes lingered longer than he should have let them, his curiosity getting the better of him and his heart silently hoping he’d get the chance to memorize each and every one of them.

“If you ask, I can tell you how I got  _most_ of them,” Damien said from across the room, drawing Dorian rather abruptly out of his thoughts, causing the mage to jump. “Others I feel like I woke up and they were just there.”

Dorian took a small beat to feel slightly embarrassed at being caught staring  _again_ , but instead of sitting in his chagrin he marked the page he was on and set the book aside, getting up and approaching the Inquisitor. He hesitated for a moment as he reached up, finally settling on tracing a fingertip gently across the scar on the Inquisitor’s right shoulder, suppressing a small smile when he felt Damien shiver.

“Templar in the Hinterlands,” Damien replied, green eyes fluttering closed at the sudden contact. “Right before we met at Redcliffe, actually.”

Dorian nodded, tracing Damien’s collarbone to his other shoulder, dragging two fingers over the crisscrossing scars that marked his freckled skin there.

“Landed on my shoulder when I dove into that cave below Haven after I caused the avalanche and chased Corypheus and his dragon away. Didn’t even realize I was bleeding until Cullen mentioned it when you guys found me in the snow.”

“I heard the words ‘he’s bleeding’ as they passed by and I’ll admit I started worrying.”

“So little faith in me, I see,” Damien chided playfully, opening his emerald eyes to meet Dorian’s brown ones.

“You faced impossible odds. We didn’t even know if you were alive and suddenly there you were, albeit limping and half-frozen, but breathing all the same.”

Damien nodded, following Dorian’s fingers as they traced down his muscular chest to the scar that marked his left pec.

“Bar fight, believe it or not,” the Inquisitor laughed. “My older sister and I snuck out one night for drinks. She was a mage—some asshat drunk Templar started yelling at her and pulled a dagger. I got between them and broke his wrist.”

“Wish I could have seen that,” Dorian snorted in amusement, moving slightly closer, testing Damien’s boundaries cautiously and taking it as a good sign when he didn’t move away.

Dorian traced the delicate outline of Damien’s abs, feeling them flex under his touch, making his breath catch in this throat. His fingertip eventually reached the crisscrossing scars on Damien’s left side just below his ribcage.

“Ice spell from a Venatori mage-”

“-in front of the Still Ruins—I remember that. I tried to cast a barrier on you before that spell hit you, but I wasn’t fast enough.” Guilt washed over him as he said it, his brow furrowing as he tried to form an adequate apology, but Damien was quick to put it to rest.

“Don’t—it happens. I should’ve been paying more attention—and it made for a cool scar, anyhow.”

“It could’ve killed you.”

“But it didn’t.”

Dorian shook his head, still not completely forgiving himself, but putting the matter to rest for the moment. His finger trailed to Damien’s other side across another smaller scar lying just above his hip bone. It was slightly fainter and harder to see than the others, but it was definitely there.

“Fell out of a tree when I was 10. My sister convinced me that if I climbed high enough and sat still enough the birds would sit on my shoulders—needless to say not only was I was disappointed, but I  _nearly_ broke everything on the right side of my body.” That one made Dorian chuckle—it was far more innocent and due to something far less... lethal than the others.

With that, Dorian finally stepped away for a moment, stepping around Damien and examining his back again, his hand finding the two long, clawmark-like scars that extended across most of the warrior’s upper back and shoulder blades. It made his heart skip a beat as he slid his palm gently across the healed skin, feeling Damien quiver under his touch again.  

“You looked like you might faint when I got that one.”

“I think it was the dragon breathing fire at us that did that. I’m surprised you  _didn’t_.”

“I almost did—hurt like a bitch. Lesson learned, at least—never turn your back on a high dragon,” Damien shrugged, looking over his shoulder at the mage as Dorian’s brown eyes looked him up and down languidly. “Bull thought it looked badass, but the fact that I couldn’t bend in any direction or sleep on my back for about a month says otherwise.”

“Oh however did you survive,” Dorian teased, making is way back around to face the front of the Inquisitor again. “And I’m sure you’ll still say taking that poor giant fire-breathing lizard with wings down was worth it.”

“And I stand by it.”

Dorian forced himself not to roll his eyes, though the smile that had crept onto his face outwardly showed his contentment. The mage reached up to the final scar, bringing a hand up to cup Damien’s face gently, his heart fluttering when the Inquisitor leaned into his touch, the warrior’s pretty green eyes meeting his chocolate brown ones. Dorian took note of the melancholy reflected in Damien’s eyes before he even asked.

The mage traced the scar that extended from just above the warrior’s eyebrow and arched down to just beside Damien’s right eye. While Damien’s eyes had been the first thing Dorian had noticed when they met—the striking green unlike anything he’d ever seen—the scar tracing through the Inquisitor’s right eyebrow and across the crest of his cheekbone had been the second and Dorian had wondered if he’d ever get the chance to ask.

“This one must have hurt.”

“In more ways than one.”

Dorian could detect the grief in the Inquisitor’s tone, realizing whatever memory was associated with that scar was far from a pleasant one. He wanted to ask, but didn’t want to pry. Damien gave him the answer anyway—knowing the mage would be curious and knowing he’d have to tell the story eventually, anyway; it might as well be to someone he adored.

“Three months before the Conclave—part of why I traveled to the Conclave, was because my sister died as a result of the Mage-Templar War. We were passing by a tavern in Ostwick when a group of templars and mages got into it with each other outside. She was never one for violence and we tried getting between them thinking we could convince them to leave the other alone. Next thing I knew I was being thrown into a wall with swords pointed at me. Elizabeth was on the ground and I couldn’t reach her before the templars put her down like a dog—screaming about death to all apostates.”

A bitter laugh escaped as he spoke.

“She _didn’t even have her staff with her_ —they had no way of knowing she was a mage and they just struck her down where she stood.”

Dorian couldn’t even begin to form a fitting response, the way Damien’s voice broke making his chest clench. Expressing his condolences seemed too insincere, though the story did make the underlying reasons for Damien’s decisions thus far more clear. He settled for cupping Damien’s face with both hands this time, coaxing the Inquisitor gently down to meet his lips.

It was a soft kiss at first, far less intense and far more deliberate than their first. Dorian let his hands drag across Damien’s chest, his fingers finding the scar on the warrior’s chest again, smirking into the kiss when Damien hummed in approval. That smirk was quickly erased when Damien bit teasingly at Dorian’s bottom lip, causing the mage to groan. Dorian broke the kiss to glare at the ginger.

Damien chuckled, nuzzling his cheek into Dorian’s palm and closing his eyes again. The rubbing of the warrior’s stubble on his palm caused a chill to run up Dorian’s spine. The mage gently rubbed the pad of his thumb across the ginger’s cheekbone in response, wiping away a stray tear he realized had settled there.

He wished he knew the right thing to say—to make it easier, but if what Damien had said was true, even if his sister’s death wasn’t his freshest wound, it was still the deepest. And from the Inquisitor’s tone, Dorian was positive it was still an open wound, even if the only evidence of the event had already healed over and left it’s external mark.

The Inquisitor finally opened his eyes, dipping down to steal Dorian’s lips again, dispelling the despondent atmosphere that had started to gather. Dorian returned it with just as much fervor as before, dragging a hand up the back of Damien’s head and through his short hair. Damien was quick to respond, reaching up and pushing his hands through Dorian’s dark hair, angling his head to the side and deepening the kiss. It made Dorian’s heart skip a beat—a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time and he almost smiled in contentment.

They broke apart when they heard rushed footsteps approaching the door. Dorian jumped, eyeing Damien, who nodded his head almost guiltily towards the chaise. Dorian nodded in understanding, returning to his former seat with haste, and picking up his book again.

Damien cleared his throat, picking up the paper’s he had been holding before being interrupted earlier, pretending to inspect them intently as the door at the bottom of the stairs opened. Before whoever it was got to the crest of the stairs; however, Damien shot Dorian an appreciative and almost apologetic look. The mage smiled in return, flipping his book back open again and going back to reading as if nothing had happened between them at all.

Dorian tuned out most of the subsequent conversation with what turned out to be an Inquisition scout, knowing it likely wasn’t any of his business. As the scout left; however, Dorian happened to glance up as she turned around, his gaze meeting hers for a moment. He had to suppress a smirk when she realized that someone else was in the room, unable to keep the surprise from being reflected on her face. She left far more quickly than she came and Dorian watched her go before turning to look at Damien again.

“If we hear any new rumors going around, at least we’ll know who started them.”

The Inquisitor shrugged.

“Let them talk.”


	2. Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole dredges up old feelings when trying to heal the hurt. Dorian finds out just how much pain Damien is in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussion of self harm scars
> 
> I don't mention any active self-harm, but it and self-harm scars are discussed. If that's okay, then carry on. If not, then I would turn back. This is a personal topic and it gets heavy. -Valk

Dorian hadn’t thought much of the conversations he had with Cole after the first couple of times they had spoken. The boy/spirit/demon/ _thing_ was curious—new to actually inhabiting this world rather than floating on the other side of the Veil and had questions that Dorian could try to answer, if he felt so inclined. After a while, he didn’t mind, usually quite amused by Cole’s innocence, if you could call it that… maybe naiveté was the better word, but Dorian didn’t think too much on it.

The mage  _did_ mind; however, whenever Cole started to dig around in his consciousness. The only respite he could take in this little happenstance was the fact that Cole did it to everyone else, too. No matter what marsh or desert they happened to be trudging through, Cole managed to make all of them uncomfortable at least once between sunup and sundown before they settled back into camp.

Lying in his bedroll at night, Dorian sometimes wondered why the Inquisitor kept bringing the boy along, but he was always presented with the answer the next day when he watched Cole take down demons or darkspawn in a matter of seconds, his daggers moving in a flurry faster than anything the mage had ever seen.

He eventually stopped agonizing over it after he realized that he often forgot  _most_ of whatever tidbit Cole had pulled from someone’s mind during their travels by the end of the day and the mage could only assume his companions did the same whenever Cole said anything about him.

Damien  _had_ pressed him about a thing or two here and there—usually out of concern, and Dorian had fallen for him just enough at that point to divulge some information, but some subjects still sported open wounds and he wasn’t willing to talk about them just yet. Damien had accepted that fact each time without hesitation, taking the mage by surprise. Dorian was used to people prying about his life back home—waiting for him to feed them the juicy tidbits of his personal life and the ensuing drama that always followed every decision he made.

Regardless, he rarely provided his true feelings on many personal matters, so whenever Cole managed to lay his feelings bare, Dorian felt far too exposed for his liking. The mage was sure his companions felt the same, even if they each reacted differently.

There were a few times something that Cole said  _had_ caught Dorian's attention. They were often about the Inquisitor, who often kept his feelings under lock and key, Dorian realized. Damien had shared a few things with the mage—the death of his sister being the most recent development, but otherwise, Dorian could never quite get a good read on what was bothering the man—likely because Inquisition matters got in the way of what was really troubling him.

Three occasions in particular nearly had Dorian asking too many questions.

Once in the Storm Coast after they had just met at Redcliffe—time traveled to the future and returned with hints about the world’s impending destruction. They had just barely started to talk then, though Dorian found he thoroughly enjoyed their conversations. He even looked forward to speaking with the warrior—far less of a barbarian than he expected could be produced from the southern population.

“Hands bleeding, sunlight glinting on steel and heavy breathing making me light-headed as he watched—never what he wanted even when I did what he asked.”

“I think it’s me this time,” Damien huffed, turning to offer Dorian, then Varric his hand as they scaled the steep, slippery path, glancing over his shoulder at Cole.

“You just wanted him to be proud.”

“I—Yes.”

“Now it’s to prove a point—fearless in the name of battle like it’s all you’ve ever known and that your life doesn’t matter. She always asks you to be careful because  _she’s_ proud of you, at least.”

The Inquisitor paused, seemingly startled by Cole’s rambling. Dorian’s gaze flickered over to the Herald. His posture had gone rigid as he took Varric’s hand. The ginger eventually recovered, not offering a reply.  _Pride_ —Damien’s story sounded almost familiar and Dorian realized that maybe they had more in common than he originally surmised.

The second time was in the Western Approach. They had just clashed with the Venatori outside of the Still Ruins. Damien was bleeding from a wound on his side—inflicted by a spell he hadn’t been fast enough to dodge, not noticing the glyph on the ground. Dorian had tried to cover the newly named Inquisitor with a barrier, but wasn’t fast enough. His heart had leapt into his throat when he watched ice pierce the ginger’s armor. Now, they were tending to their wounds before heading inside.

“Taking them off would be letting go—diamond dust on steel and the rain under her hooves as I fled— _coward_.”

“Need something, Cole,” Damien had replied quietly, pressing a gloved hand against the bloody gap in his armor and wincing, testing the severity of the wound.

“He doesn’t blame you, you know. He’s glad you listened.  _For once_ , he says.”

“I-I can’t say I feel the same.”

Dorian and Cassandra had glanced at each other, but Cas had just shrugged. Dorian felt it wasn’t his place to ask, not missing the look of puzzled dissatisfaction that crossed Damien’s face once the conversation ended. The mage couldn’t help, but wonder, yet decided to let it go for the moment. If it was important, Damien would likely bring it up.

The third time was in the Emerald Graves—a gorgeous place with a sad history that seemed to dampen the sunlight as it filtered through the canopy. They had just made camp for the night—Damien and Bull having slaughtered an August Ram for dinner.

With full stomachs, they had been sitting around the fire as dusk settled, with the Inquisitor skimming reports from his scouts about the Freemen of the Dales. Bull was perched nearby, flicking leaves into the flame from the ground. Dorian absentmindedly listened to them pop and sizzle as they burned, his eyes flickering up from the book in his lap to look at the Inquisitor, silently appreciating the way the firelight contoured his strong features.

The mage had found he often let his eyes wander the Inquisitor’s form more often than he should these days. They had been flirting for months, kissing in his library alcove or on Damien’s desk. The Inquisitor had fallen asleep after sitting on the floor at his legs after reading for hours back at Skyhold more than once, just enjoying the mage’s company, his head resting against Dorian’s knee as his eyes fluttered shut. It made Dorian smile every time; the ginger looked far less intimidating when he was asleep—more like  _Damien_ and less like the Inquisitor, Dorian thought. The Tevinter scion hoped he’d eventually get an invitation into Damien’s tent, or maybe he’d just sneak in in the early morning hours and curl up against him-

“Emptiness and then everything all at once crashing over my head— _I can’t breathe_   _I can’t breathe and I need you_ —but you’re too afraid to ask—afraid of what he’ll say when he sees the scars.”

“Cole—enough.” The Inquisitor’s reply was stern this time—far less accepting than he normally was of Cole’s probing. Dorian noticed the warrior didn’t even bother to look up from the paper’s he was reading when he replied.

“You can let it hurt without actually hurting. You don’t always have to feel something.”

“It’s... not that easy,” Damien’s reply was quiet—so much so that Dorian almost missed it.

“You think you’ll get lost—blade against your skin a familiar feeling like a sword in your hand—a punishment rather than a reminder, but you don’t deserve it. Gentle and selfless with everyone, but yourself.”

The Inquisitor fell quiet—as did Cole. Dorian had glanced at Bull from across the camp, wondering if the Qunari had gotten a read on the conversation. The look on Bull’s face was definitely one of concern and Dorian’s eyebrows furrowed. Damien caught the look they exchanged, looking between the two of them, silently telling them to let it go.

And Dorian would—until they got back to Skyhold at least. Bull had said that if the mage didn’t ask, then he would. Dorian wouldn’t quite get the chance to ask when he originally planned to, but he would eventually get an answer. Instead lips silenced his words and next thing he knew he was being pressed against the soft, silk sheets of the Inquisitor’s bed with his hands pinned above his head and Damien’s mouth roaming his tan skin.

What followed left it hard for the mage’s mind, much less his mouth to form coherent words. It wasn’t until after, when they were both lying tangled together in their post-sex haze among a mess of twisted sheets and mingling breaths that Dorian got the confirmation he needed.

The mage hadn’t had a chance to just look at  _all_ of the Inquisitor’s body until now. Damien laid quietly with his eyes closed next to the Tevinter scion, one arm thrown behind his own head and the other cast lazily under Dorian’s head. Dorian was quick to let his half-lidded eyes travel, tracing every muscle and curve and freckled expanse of Damien’s skin, his gaze slowly traveling downwards over the crest of the Inquisitor’s abdomen.

Even in the dim firelight that bathed the Inquisitor’s room in a soft, warm glow, Dorian could see the scars. They were too neatly arranged to be caused by an undeliberate blade; some had faded and others looked newly healed, but thankfully, none appeared fresh.

‘— _afraid of what he’ll say when he sees the scars_.’

Cole’s words echoed in Dorian’s head as he silently examined Damien’s upper thigh, practically feeling his heart wrench in his chest. He couldn’t help, but reach up, dragging a gentle fingertip across the lines, his brow furrowing in something akin to remorse. If only he had paid better attention, maybe he could have helped—said or done something to change the outcome and pull him away from the edge if any of them had appeared during their time together.

Damien jumped, sitting up rather abruptly and grabbing Dorian’s wrist, the look in his eyes one of a startled halla caught in a wildfire. There was a small pause, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Damien lowered his head almost submissively, not breaking his gaze with the mage, but preparing himself for what he assumed was going to be an onslaught of questions.

“Do these have stories you’re willing to tell?” Dorian framed the question cautiously, not wanting to encroach on the Inquisitor’s insecurities without his consent.

“I…” For once, the ginger was at a loss for words. He hesitated, barely breathing and Dorian could see the internal conflict he was fighting in his head reflected in his eyes. The Inquisitor loosened his grip on Dorian’s wrist, moving to intertwine their fingers before pulling his hand up to kiss the mage’s knuckles—a gesture that sent a chill up Dorian’s spine—Damien’s emerald eyes falling closed for a moment as he finally came to a decision.

“Cole wasn’t… wrong when he said I was afraid of what you’d say. I can’t promise I can tell you everything now, but you deserve to know,” the Inquisitor whispered against his skin hesitantly, his body shaking ever so slightly—it made Dorian’s heart ache. “You can ask whatever questions you’d like, but I also can’t promise I can answer them the way you want me to.”

“When was the last time?”

That wasn’t the first question Damien expected, but he had promised answers.

“Right after the explosion at the Conclave—I was still blaming myself for what happened before. I  _still_ blame myself.”

“About what happened to your sister? Is that what Cole mentioned before? Or is there another reason you call yourself a coward?"

“My sister's death is part of it, but the… incident he mentioned is unrelated,” Damien replied, letting go of Dorian hand and sliding off of the bed. “When we first met, if it seemed like I was uninterested—it was because I was grieving.”

Dorian watched apprehensively as the Inquisitor headed towards his desk and moved a jumbled stack of papers, picking up what appeared to be a necklace. As the ginger turned and moved closer, Dorian realized the necklace had two wedding bands on them, the silverite glinting in the firelight.

“What was his name?”

“Alex. He was supposed to be there with me. After Elizabeth died, my parents publicly blamed the Templar Order in their grief which was _unheard_ of from our family and the Chantry didn’t take so kindly to that. Last I heard from the investigation it seems a Chantry mother hired the group of ex-templar mercenaries that ambushed us on the way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. My assassination was supposed to be revenge for the slander, but Alex went on the defensive and told me to run. I did, like a coward."

“Did your parents know?”

“Yes. It’s part of why I’m not on speaking terms with my father. Nothing I’ve ever done was good enough for him and that was the felling blow of our relationship. He couldn’t accept that his one remaining child likely wouldn’t pass on the family name,” the Inquisitor stated almost grudgingly. “I had already refused to become a Templar at that point in my life and finding out that I was engaged to a man didn’t sit very well.”

Dorian knew that feeling all too well, his stomach sinking in response.

“And pray tell, what did Lady Trevelyan think of all of this?”

“She didn’t understand at first, but eventually I think she just came to terms with it. I could make the case that she always knew when I rejected any female attention directed my way, but she never said anything,” Damien replied, thumbing the rings in his hand idly, looking down at them almost sadly. “I assumed she was just as disappointed as my father until Cole mentioned otherwise.”

“I guess having your life fall apart in less than 3 months would weigh heavily on anyone,” Dorian replied, keeping his tone steady as he gave Damien’s hand a comforting squeeze, noting the deep-set exhaustion that had finally settled on the ginger’s face. “I’m afraid I can’t help, but notice this isn’t a recent development, however.”

“When I was younger, no matter how hard I trained or studied or worked it just wasn’t good enough. I’d have a sword in my hands until they bled from sunrise to sunset just hoping he’d say  _something_ , but I was always met with silence or he’d walk away in disappointment,” Damien replied, bitterness and weariness bleeding into his tone. “After that happened so many times, I went numb. I started cutting myself to feel something—managed to convince myself that I deserved it because I wasn’t working _hard enough._ ”

“And now?”

“I needed somewhere to place the blame. Elizabeth and Alex’s deaths play on repeat in my head and I can’t help, but blame myself. If I had been faster, maybe I could have saved my sister. If I had been stronger, maybe I could have save Alex,” the Inquisitor murmured, his eyes falling closed and his brow furrowing as if he was in pain. “That night on the balcony—you asked me why I decided on becoming a champion over a reaver. Those are the two people I lost. Cole said I was selfless, but my reasons for doing so are selfish. I don’t think I can handle losing any of you and I’ll die before I let it happen.”

That made Dorian’s stomach drop. The mage might not have known the warrior for as long as Cassandra or Varric, but he wasn’t ignorant and certainly wasn’t blind. Damien had proven himself again and again—proven he was easily the best leader the Inquisition could have hoped for—the fool couldn’t even see his own brilliance.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Dorian,” Damien whispered, looking down at the mage lying just beside him. “I’ve been okay since we sealed the Breach because I’ve been constantly distracted, but I can’t promise I won’t fall prey to my demons again.”

“We’ll chase them away, then,” Dorian replied with a small smile, pushing himself into a sitting position. “We’re good at that.”

Damien let out an amused huff, a smile finally gracing his lips for the first time since the start of their conversation. Dorian reached up to drag Damien forward into a soft kiss, nosing the ginger’s cheek gently when they broke apart again, hoping the gesture provided some kind of comfort.

“Don’t leave?”

A simple question—one Dorian was glad to answer.

“You couldn’t make me even if you wanted to, my dear Inquisitor. I wholly expect one more round before I make my exit.”

The Inquisitor laughed, glancing one last time at the rings in his hand before setting them aside on the bedside table.


	3. Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damien receives a letter.

They rode in silence, Damien keeping his gaze straight ahead, eyes locked on the well worn dirt path ahead as it raced by underneath them.

‘ You’re a spitting image of your father ,’ they always said.

It made him flinch. That’s not what he wanted.

“ This isn’t how it was supposed to be .”

His mother’s word echoed in his head and it made his chest hurt, the look on her face when he told her his sister’s—her only daughter’s fate was burned into his mind.

She had taken care of him like any mother would, dabbing at his bleeding forehead gently and cooing calming encouragements through sobs, but he couldn’t look her in the eyes anymore—tired blue eyes that had looked like Elizabeth’s moments before she had died. He kept seeing his sister in his nightmares—waking up in a jolt covered in a cold sweat as he reached for her desperately before a holy sword had splattered her blood on the street below them.

He’d get up and pick up a sword every time after, heading deep into the forests surrounding their estate to find a wolf or a bear to fight, unable and unwilling to fall back asleep—fearing he would keep seeing her reach for him. Each clawmark and gash he received reminded him that he was still alive—reminded him who was to blame and the pain that lit up his nerves convinced him he deserved it. The sting of the sweat on his forehead as it dripped into his wound reminded him he couldn’t protect her and it broke his heart.

His father had called him pathetic when he returned a few days later—outraged that the son he had so painstakingly trained was unable to protect his own sister. Damien was inclined to agree, but he didn’t say so out loud. His mother had stayed silent, staring off into the adjacent room, barely able to hear over her own grief. They had decided to leave her in peace, taking their subsequent fight elsewhere, finding themselves racing through the forests that encompassed the Trevelyan estate. Damien kept pulling ahead of his father, unable to look at him, either.

“Alex and I are engaged.”

The words came out of his mouth in a flurry—he figured if he was going to continue being a disappointment, he might as well get everything on the table. It had happened weeks ago on his trip with Alex to Rivain, but Damien had kept his silence, too apprehensive to reveal their engagement just yet. Now was as good a time as any.

The sound of a second horse’s hooves on pine needles and dirt slowed to a stop and Damien pulled on the reigns, slowing his own horse to a halt, angling the dappled mare back so he could look at his father. Bann Trevelyan gazed at his son, his green eyes narrowing and a frown on his face, his greying auburn hair falling over his forehead. The dead silent pause that followed made Damien realize his heart was racing.

“You’re not the son I raised.”

The words didn’t cut as deeply as Damien expected. They were less scathing than he had been anticipating and he held firm in his opposition, his brow furrowing in exasperation.

“What do you want fro—,” but the elder Trevelyan didn’t let his son finish, shaking his head in disapproval—a motion Damien had gotten used to over the years.

“All I ever asked of you was for you to listen to me, but you even struggle with that,” his father interrupted, his gaze heavy and his grip on the reins tight. “We’re the laughing stock of the family all because you couldn’t pretend to love the girl. Now your sister is dead—I trained you to protect your family, not stand by stunned like a scared halla.”

“I tried protecting her. I tried convincing her to stay out of it,” Damien replied, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “But you know— knew her and she was as stubborn as any of us. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to her fast enough—I’ll probably regret that for the rest of my life. I’m sure you would have been more content with the outcome if I had died instead.”

“That outcome would have certainly been more ideal,” his father snarled in return, though Damien noted that his tone made the insult seem half-hearted. “Then I wouldn’t have to worry about explaining where your sister is and why you’re still up and running around with another man. It was hard enough explaining to the du Marquets why you rejected their daughter. Now I have to tell them their son doesn’t have a wife, either.”

“She hated him, anyway. If you thought she actually would have agreed you’re a fool,” Damien retorted, trying to keep his voice from rising. “You wouldn’t know that, though—you’ve never bothered to ask how we feel about any decision you’ve ever made for us for most of our lives.”

“Every decision I’ve made for you was to make sure you had the easiest life I could give you. You just had to listen or at least see what was at stake.”

“I’m not blind nor am I a fool. If you think our family’s reputation is more important than your own children’s happiness I don’t know what to tell you except I’ll be damned if I spend the rest of my life miserable because you can’t accept that things just won’t work out how you planned.”

“All you had to do was marry the girl we chose and protect your sister like I told you to. It was that easy, but I suppose fucking up easy tasks are all weak men are good for.”

That stung and Damien lowered his head, his eyes finally falling closed in defeat. Tears pricked the edges of his eyes, but the younger Trevelyan forced them back, taking in a shaky breath before looking up to meet his father’s gaze. It was stone cold and Damien knew he’d never find the right words—it was unlikely anything he said or did would make anything any easier.

He decided to just tug at the reins in his hands instead, urging the horse underneath him to turn around again and move, quickly . She went from a trot to a swift gallop as quickly as Damien could get her to, putting more and more space between himself and his father.

If that’s what he thinks, so be it.

But that mentality didn’t keep the guilt from eating away at him.

It tugged at his subconscious in his sleep, danced through his head every time he pulled Alex closer, and finally tore at his sanity when he met Dorian—when that familiar feeling bubbled up in his chest. Every time he found himself being dragged down to meet Dorian’s lips, he admitted to himself he was weak— oh so weak and he had to push the image of his sister aside when their tongues tangled, his father’s words echoing in his head. Damien just wanted him to be proud—a task he should have realized was impossible far sooner, but it was too late by then.

The memory was somehow more potent now that Damien hadn’t spoken to his father in over a year and a half. He had just received a letter from his mother begging for him to come home—his father was sick and she didn’t know if he would make it. He didn’t know how to feel, kicking his booted feet up onto his desk and sitting back, his thumb idly playing with the corner of the parchment as he scanned his mother’s handwriting.

On one hand, his tattered self esteem and the scars on his thighs and wrists were the result of his father’s poor parenting—the ginger couldn’t deny that. On the other, it was his father—the man who had taught him how to use a sword and to ride a horse among many other things. The man whose approval Damien had been seeking for all 26 years of his life. The Inquisitor also didn’t want to leave his mother to grieve alone should his father pass.

“Keep staring at that paper any longer and it will burst into flames,” Dorian’s voice drew Damien out of his head and the warrior looked up as the Tevinter scion let himself in, Dorian’s brown eyes glowing almost golden in the light of the setting sun. “What’s on your mind?”

Rather than explain, Damien handed the mage the letter, scanning Dorian’s face as he read the text, unable to keep a small smile from creeping onto his face as he watched Dorian’s expressions change with some amusement. Once the mage had finished, he looked up at the ginger, handing the letter back to him. Damien set it to the side, running his hands tiredly down his face before crossing his arms behind his head.

“This all seems rather familiar.”

“Which part? The daddy issues, the letter writing, or the request for reconciliation,” Damien quipped sarcastically in return. “...I don’t know what to do.”

“No decision worth making is easy, mind you,” Dorian replied, extending a hand and beckoning for the Inquisitor to stand—the mage knew he had likely been sitting at his desk all day. “After everything he’s said and done, I wouldn’t mark going as a requirement.”

“But If I go, would you mind accompanying me?”

“And miss out on Ostwick wine and cheese? Perish the thought,” Dorian replied with a small smile. “Wherever you need me, amatus, I’m there.”

That word—it made that bubbly feeling rise up in Damien’s chest again, and as usual, the feeling was chased by the memory of his father’s disappointment. He pushed it down again like he always did, smiling and running a gentle, battleworn hand through Dorian’s dark hair before pulling the mage against him, stealing his lips. Dorian was quick to hum in approval, a sound that made Damien realize he was still oh so weak and he could make peace with that for the moment.

“He’s my father. I can’t… not go.” Dorian took note of the hesitant edge in his voice, but nodded anyway.

“I know,” Dorian replied, gently nosing Damien’s cheek affectionately, making the warrior’s heart flutter. “No need to explain. You may recall I’m rather well versed in the matter of difficult fathers.”

That made Damien chuckle, wrapping his arms around the mage and pulling him against his chest. Dorian was quick to grow comfortable, always grateful to be in the warrior’s arms, a chill running through his body when Damien pressed a kiss to his hair. There was a small pause, neither of them willing to let the other go.

“Alright—I have to write orders. I’ll have Cullen move Inquisition soldiers into the Emerald Graves while we’re gone. I’ll ask Josephine to find a ship out of Jader to Ostwick within the next few days…"

There it was. He sounded more like the Inquisitor and less like Damien again and Dorian couldn’t help, but smile. He was one of the few who knew the difference—had experienced the difference. He wouldn’t ever say it out loud, but he felt almost privileged that the warrior had opened up to him at all, much more so since the Inquisitor had asked him to come with him to Ostwick. It’s the least he could do—Damien had accompanied him in dealing with his own family matters.

“...Pack light. We need to move fast.”

Dorian nodded in acknowledgement, tuning back into the conversation, reluctantly relinquishing his place in Damien’s arms to head back to his own room. Damien was loathe to let him go, but knew he had to start on his own agenda, watching Dorian leave reverently. The Inquisitor took a deep, shaky breath, glancing at the open letter one last time before finally making peace with his decision, moving to start checking things off of his mental list.

They left by midnight, with the Inquisitor having given out his respective orders to be carried out in his absence. Damien climbed up onto his ebony mare at the gate, glancing over his shoulder as Dorian did the same to his right, the mage urging his silver mare forward to stand beside Damien’s horse.

“Ready?” Damien knew the Tevinter scion was—it was more of a confirmation to himself that he was sure of his own decision.

“No—wait. I’m meeting your parents and I didn’t have time to trim my mustache,” Dorian deadpanned, eyeing the Inquisitor mischievously. “I have to make the best possible impression and I can’t do that while looking like the southerner I’m not.”

“So, you’re finally admitting we’ve rubbed off on you a bit,” Damien snorted in reply, shaking his head and urging his horse forward out of the gate and onto the moonlit trail. Dorian followed at his side, their horses hooves crunching in the fresh snow.

“I can’t speak for the rest of Fereldan, but I know you have.”

“ Oh you’ll get along with my mother just fine,” Damien groaned in return, rolling his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the smile on his face. “Let’s go.”

The Inquisitor set a quick pace, pushing their horses as fast as he could without exhausting them too quickly. In doing so, they made good time—riding straight through the Frostback Mountains and out over the foothill roads that led into Jader, making it to the port city in three and a half days. Dorian had never seen Damien so focused, but even in the silent moments of the nights they spent either holed up in some obscure inn or in an Inquisition camp, Dorian could see the conflicting emotions Damien was feeling in his emerald eyes. When Damien took his hand on the ship as they crossed the Waking Sea, the ginger was shaking and Dorian gave his hand a small comforting squeeze—a silent reminder to breathe .

Once they reached the opposing coast 3 days later—the winds having favored them out on the open water, the ride to the Trevelyan estate, located just outside of Ostwick, took another half a day, putting their arrival around dusk nearly a week after their departure.

As they rode along the coastline and came upon the estate, Dorian looked around in wonderment, taking in the breathtaking forests and fields that led nearly up to the beaches, eventually giving way to sand and rock—not ideal for sunbathing, but still an incredible view nonetheless. Damien smiled when he saw the mage’s wide brown eyes, appreciating the way Dorian earnestly took in the new surroundings as they passed by.

The memories that came flooding back to him as they crossed pathways he knew like the back of his hand made Damien realize it had been a long time since he had been home. It felt good—familiar, despite the reasons for their journey. The gates to estate were already open and they slowed their horses to a trot as they entered, riding up to Damien’s childhood home, a large, but modestly embellished house that sat at the top of a small incline.

Stable hands were quick to take their horses, catching Damien off-guard when they referred to him as ‘Lord Trevelyan’ rather than ‘Inquisitor’—not that he minded. The front door of the house opened as they approached and Damien smiled, greeting his mother graciously. Dorian noted she looked tired—dark brown hair pulled into a graceful bun and bags under her gray-blue eyes.

“Hi mama.” Damien’s voice sounded almost small, something Dorian didn’t think a man of his stature was capable of—it was almost endearing.

“My darling,” his mother replied, her voice soft and her eyes lighting up when he bent down to wrap his arms around her. “You run off and become the Inquisitor and all we get is one short note home.”

“I’ve been… busy,” Damien replied almost guiltily and Dorian couldn’t help, but snort in amusement. Lady Trevelyan released her son, brushing a stray strand of his short ginger hair off of his forehead affectionately as she let go, sending a pang through Dorian’s chest—it made him miss home.

“Who’s this lovely soul that you asked to accompany you?”

“Dorian Pavus, my lady. Inquisition mage and the one responsible for keeping your son on his toes.” Dorian threw a teasing glance at the Inquisitor, who raised an amused eyebrow.

“Someone has to,” Lady Trevelyan replied, smiling and moving to kiss him on both cheeks—a warm gesture Dorian wasn’t expecting, but appreciated nonetheless. “He’s standing here alive, so I suppose you’re doing a rather good job.”

“He might have saved me a couple of times,” Damien chided warmly, moving to take Dorian’s bag as they stepped inside the house behind his mother. “And you were worried about your mustache.” That was more directed at the Tevinter scion, who shook his head in reply.

The inside of the house was warm, a stark contrast to the cooling air outside and Damien was grateful. Few things had changed inside—each room was moderately decorated with furs and antique, but expensive furniture. Dorian looked around, eyeing the vivid paintings on the walls encased in heavy wooden frames and admiring the clean trim that lined the mildly painted walls, noting the terrestrial and cosmic elements that seemed to be woven into each piece. The decor aesthetic was similar to the great hall at Skyhold—likely at the request of the Inquisitor to make him feel more at home.

They passed through the foyer into the kitchen, Damien and his mother chatting away as if he had never left. Dorian could see where the ginger had gotten many of his mannerism and found her to be a generally pleasant and patient presence, if a little sarcastic in her goading—just like him. And she spoke to Dorian as if he wasn’t a stranger—another surprising change that wasn’t unwelcome.

“Go see your father,” Lady Trevelyan said, ushering them towards the stairs. “I had the maids put fresh sheets and a few extra pillows on your bed. I don’t want your partner here to be uncomfortable. I’ll have wine for you both when you’re finished.”

Dorian opened his mouth to say something, but Damien just ushered him up the stairs before the mage could, humming a small ‘thank you’ to his mother instead. Dorian found that the upstairs was decorated similarly to the bottom floor, Damien’s room included, though the bookshelves that lined one wall of the Inquisitor's former room did catch his eye once they entered.

“You’re welcome to peruse and bring whichever ones you’d like back with you,” Damien replied, following Dorian’s gaze as he set their things down on his bed. “We have an actual library on the other side of the house—remind me before we leave. There’s a copy of Tales of the Ancient Somniari somewhere in there that I want to read again.”

“Your mother’s a sharp one,” Dorian commented, changing the subject as he scanned the bindings, running his fingers over some of them, the aged leather cold against his skin. “She took one look at me and knew who I was to you.”

“It’s a fair assumption to make,” Damien said sitting down on the edge of his bed and laying back for a moment. “And where do you think I get it from?”

“Fair enough. Had I brought you home there would have been a number of scathing remarks I’m sure,” Dorian sniffed, finally turning from the books to sit down at Damien’s side. “Said behind my back, of course, but just within earshot to make sure I’m aware of their disapproval.”

“I’m the only child she has left—she’s always been accepting, but more so since Elizabeth died,” Damien replied, sitting up again and intertwining their fingers. “I’m sure my father will have a thing or two to say, so I apologize in advance for any potential insults thrown your way.”

“Oh my poor pride—however will I be able to handle it,” Dorian retorted, leaning his head on the Inquisitor’s shoulder, a chill running down his spine when Damien pressed a kiss to his dark hair. There was a long, comfortable pause.

“Tell me to get up or else I won’t and this entire trip will have been pointless.”

“No time like the present, amatus. The sooner you talk to him, the sooner we get some of that wine your mother offered,” Dorian insisted gently, pushing himself up and dragging Damien to his feet. “Plus, if things go poorly, we can get drunk and you can walk me around this gorgeous estate of yours. I’m sure you have plenty of places from your childhood begging to be debauched again.”

That made Damien laugh and the warrior shook his head, relinquishing Dorian’s hand and opening the door again.

“I can think of a few.”

Even though it only took a few moments, the walk to Damien’s parent’s room felt like it took an eternity and the Inquisitor hesitated when he reached for the door handle, his hand hovering for a moment. Dorian rested his hand gently on Damien’s shoulder, using his free hand to pull the ginger’s face down to meet his lips gently before smoothing that hand through Damien’s red hair, silently promising that he was there. Damien rested his forehead against Dorian’s for a moment, taking in a breath before turning the handle, pushing the door open.

The large master bedroom was dim, the fire in the fireplace having burned down to just embers, giving the room an orange glow. Bann Trevelyan sat upright in the large bed on the back wall of the room supported by a plethora of plush pillows, dozing, snoring ever so subtly.

Dorian noticed he looked rather pale, but the mage was almost taken aback at just how much Damien resembled him, down to his (albeit) graying ginger hair, strong cheekbones, and when he looked up as they walked in, striking green eyes. Damien’s stride stuttered when his gaze met his father’s.

“Damien,” his father’s voice was low, his tone bordering on exhausted, but he reached up anyway as the Inquisitor approached, his surprise evident. “ My son .”

That broke him. This wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as he had originally anticipated and Damien felt his heart clench in his chest. He hadn’t heard those words in a very long time—he hadn’t expected to hear those words ever again, really.

“Father,” the Inquisitor couldn’t keep his voice from breaking, tears threatening to spill over the edges of his green eyes as he pulled a chair up to his father’s bedside, sitting down and taking his hand. It was warm—a good sign, though his father was shaking.

“And who’s this?”

Damien hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Dorian, who was perched cautiously near the doorway, before speaking.

“Dorian. He’s a… friend—one of the best mages in the Inquisition.” Damien heard Dorian stifle a chuckle behind him and the ginger threw him a flippant look.

“A friend... where have I heard that one before,” his father quipped lightheartedly, a small smile lighting up his aging face, catching Damien a bit off guard. “He’s welcome to come in.”

Dorian looked to the Inquisitor for approval, approaching and pulling up another nearby chair when Damien beckoned for him to move closer.

“I take it your mother sent for you?”

“She did. I’m starting to think maybe she just wanted me to come home.”

“I think you might be right,” Bann Trevelyan agreed with a chuckle, giving his son’s hand a squeeze. “She likely overstated my condition. There’s no need to worry.”

“Given that you’re bedridden, something had to have happened,” Damien observed, feeling a bit of a cold draft drift over his body as he spoke, causing him to shiver. Dorian felt it, too, pushing himself out of his chair to put wood on the fire, lighting it again with a flick of his wrist.

“Just a bad chest cold and a bit of exhaustion—nothing unusual for someone of my age. I didn’t mean to drag you away from your duties.”

Dorian realized that Damien’s father seemed genuinely surprised to see him—it was likely he hadn’t expected his son to return home at all, given their issues.

“We- I needed the break,” Damien replied quietly. “I was about to chide you for overworking yourself, but that would make me a hypocrite.”

“That’s right—it is Inquisitor now…”

They fell into easy conversation—entirely the opposite of what either Damien or even Dorian expected—discussing the Inquisition and the last year and a half of their lives since the Conclave. Damien was unsurprised to find that little at home had changed due to the Breach, though his father said he felt like he heard more reports about demons roaming the coast than before. Damien had nodded, confirming his scouts had spotted rifts as far away from the Breach as Starkhaven. It was likely there were a few distorting the Fade around Ostwick, too.

Their conversation veered back to the end of the Mage-Templar War and the Breach, the conversation turning solemn when his father mentioned how Elizabeth would have loved to have seen the day. Damien fell quiet, clasping his other hand over his father’s, his gaze downcast.

“Are you two…?” The question went unfinished, but they could both fill in the blanks. They two of them exchanged uneasy glances before Damien spoke.

“Yeah.”

The Inquisitor's eyes fell closed, his brow furrowing in preparation for an onslaught of insults, but his father squeezed his hand again instead, bringing his other hand over to cover Damien’s top hand.

“Good. As long as someone is watching your back,” his father replied gently, giving Dorian a small nod of respect. Dorian returned it subtly, looking over at the Inquisitor to see if he was alright.

Damien opened his eyes again, looking up at his father in astonishment, opening his mouth to say something, but closing it again, unable to find the right words.

“I’m sorry for what I said before you left,” the older Trevelyan started. “I was grieving for your sister and I wrongly placed the blame on you. And I’m sorry I couldn’t accept you as you are. I’m a dreadful father who couldn’t see how badly I was hurting you. All I wanted was for you to be happy, but I was set in doing it my way.”

“I-I-,” But Bann Trevelyan shook his head, silencing his son for the moment.

“I am proud of you, Damien—I always have been. I was just afraid if I told you you’d stop pushing yourself. It doesn’t make up for the pain I’ve caused you, but your absence made me realize what a stubborn fool I was.”

The tears that had gathered at the edges of his green eyes finally spilled over, dripping down Damien’s freckled cheeks as he choked back a sob. Damien’s father drew him closer, moving to rest a hand on the back of his son’s head to pull their foreheads together, letting his eyes fall closed as his son cried.

Damien had waited his entire life to hear those words—he hadn’t expected the apology either, but would accept it nonetheless, unable to stop the tears that fell, his breathing erratic as he tried to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape.

Dorian reached for Damien—the feeling of the Inquisitor’s shoulders shaking as sobs rocked his body making Dorian’s heart clench. Bann Trevelyan moved to whispering comforts to his son, further apologies meant to ease his tears and eventually he quieted. There was a long stretch of silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire and Damien’s shaky breathing.

“Go—spend time with your mother,” his father said softly, smoothing a gentle hand over Damien’s hair. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

The Inquisitor could only manage a nod, releasing his father and moving to stand rather unsteadily. Dorian righted the ginger, leading him gently to the door, closing it behind them as they exited. The mage guided him back to his room, moving to gently wipe the tears from Damien’s freckled cheeks once they were safely inside. Damien nuzzled Dorian’s hand as he did so, his green eyes falling closed as he tried to get his breathing under control.

“...Some part of me wishes he had just yelled at me,” Damien sniffled, laughing lightly when Dorian moved to fix his eyeliner. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Need that drink now?”

“Oh yes.”

Damien took another moment to pull himself together, pressing a kiss to Dorian’s forehead before moving to head downstairs.

“You may have your mother’s mannerisms, but you’re a spitting image of your father,” Dorian commented, following the Inquisitor.

Those words used to make his blood run cold and Damien couldn’t help, but pause as they descended the stairs, looking back at Dorian for a moment.

“Damien I didn’t—,” but the Inquisitor interrupted him, a small smile breaking out on his face.

“It’s alright—there are worse things.”

“To be fair, if you do age that gracefully, I won’t complain.”

“If it helps any, I do think I’m graying a bit already from the stress.”

“Okay—maybe don’t do it like that.”

Damien laughed.


	4. Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian tries to convince Damien to forgive himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the Living In Fiction version of [Animals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OuH_iWXF8HY) by Maroon 5. 
> 
> Warnings: active self-harm in the form of being reckless for the sake of feeling something on Damien's part, rough sex, Dorian being angry, confused, and a little drunk -Valk

Damien felt his heart skip a beat when he saw Dorian on the ground.

They should have turned back—waited for Inquisition reinforcements to help them storm Suledin Keep, but he had wanted to handle Imshael as soon as they could. Now they were being swarmed by Red Templars and Red Lyrium giants alike who were quick to overtake their position, raining arrows and stones onto them. Damien and Cassandra shrugged most of them off, barely feeling them thanks to their sturdy armor, but Dorian’s barrier could only protect him and Varric for so long.

Damien had just deftly cut the back of the knee of a lyrium giant and thrust his greatsword through its skull when he heard a cry, looking over to find Dorian in the snow, his barrier having just given out. Red Templar knights were surrounding him and for a moment, Damien felt like he was back in that night and instead of Dorian, he saw his sister lying on the ground, templars surrounding her and ending her life.

He saw red, letting out an enraged battle cry before swinging the sword in his hands, the blade producing an immense swell of fire that easily incinerated the flanking templars. The warrior was quick to put himself between Dorian and their assailants, refusing to repeat the mistakes of his past, finding satisfaction when his blade quickly took the head off of a Red Templar archer before crushing the armor and ribcage of another Red Templar knight.

But even once the battle was over and blood dripped off of his armor—even once he had helped Dorian up and they had taken the keep, slaying Imshael and throwing up the Inquisition banner, Damien found that that scene wouldn’t stop playing in his head. Dorian had been a whisper away from death, looking at him desperately for some kind of backup, and Damien found himself dwelling on what would have happened if he hadn’t been fast enough. The only answer he found was that of the circumstances of his sister’s death.

That sent him spiraling.

He had only meant to take a walk, sneaking out of the camp they had set up in the Keep around midnight when the moon was at its zenith, making the snow that blanketed the region appear as if it was glowing. Most of their soldiers and a few of his friends had passed out from drinking in celebration of their hard fought victory, Dorian included, but Damien was still careful to sneak out of their bed as quietly as he could, grabbing his greatsword and nothing else.

Damien found himself looking for a fight, that familiar numbness biting at the edges of his subconscious, threatening to pull him under to indifference and that was a dangerous proposition. He’d let himself fall for it one last time—let himself feel nothing, but pain. He could trick himself into thinking it would make him sharper—trick himself into thinking he deserved it again for not being sharp enough.

The warrior slipped quietly down the dark pathways out of the Keep, careful to stay to the shadows to make sure Inquisition scouts keeping watch didn’t spot him, though he could do little about his boots crunching in the snow. Once he was outside of the fortress, the sound of wolves howling in the distance caught his attention and the Inquisitor looked up, choosing his path carefully before descending down the steep cliffside towards Sahrnia.

The pack had him surrounded before he even reached the river, six strong, their eyes glowing menacingly in the moonlight as they circled, vapor billowing up from their muzzles as they growled at him. Damien drew his greatsword, giving it an almost cocky flourish before taking a defensive stance, a small smirk gracing his lips.

He had missed this.

He knew he shouldn’t feel that way—having others to fight at your side was a luxury and he was lucky, but when the first wolf lunged at him, it’s teeth barely missing his calf, the adrenaline that shot through his veins made him feel something akin to elation. He took it down with a quick, deep slash to the flank, preparing for the next when the other wolves around him scattered again before regrouping. He felt bad for killing them, but they would pose as a threat to the Inquisitor soldiers and the people of Sahrnia alike.

Two wolves set upon attacking him the second time, both dashing in on his left flank—a weak spot Bull always reminded him of every time they sparred and he spun on his heel, his subsequent attack deterring one of the wolves, but the other managed to lunge at just the right angle to catch it’s teeth on his thigh. Pain lit up his nerves and he couldn’t stop the dark laugh that passed his lips—it was exactly what he wanted.

The Inquisitor didn’t know how much time had passed, but soon the pack was lying dead around him, staining the snow red. Angry scratches and bite marks littered his arms and legs, tainting the fabric on his body with blood, but as he caught his breath from the squabble, he ran a finger over the gash on his shoulder, hissing as the wound stung almost deliciously, pushing at the boundaries of the nothingness that had enveloped his mind.

He wasn’t satisfied—not yet, but it was a good start. He took a moment to silently pay respect to the wolves before moving on, leaving their bodies in the snow—Inquisition soldiers would likely find them tomorrow and could use the pelts.

Damien trudged back up the mountain towards the Keep, keeping on the lookout for anything he could pick a fight with. Most of the passageways were quiet, but just as he descended on the entrance to Suledin Keep again, hoping maybe he’d find another Red Templar or two they had missed that he could take down, he heard it.

Damien turned, coming face to face with a rather large bear, it’s dark eyes staring him down from the sparse tree line just across the clearing. He pulled his greatsword off of his back again, pointing the blade at the animal, practically begging for it to come closer. This  _fight_ started far more quickly than his  _scuffle_ with the wolves.

The bear charged him, easily racing across the clearing in seconds and swinging a clawed limb at him as soon as it was within range. The Inquisitor ducked to the side, regaining his balance and stepping through to deliver a powerful upward strike, grazing the bear’s shoulder and back. The animal didn’t take kindly to that, turning on him faster than he expected and swiping at him again, catching the ginger on his clavicle and barely missing his face.

Pain blossomed in his shoulder from the wound and he groaned, the first visceral sensation that had finally nudged through his numbness. It felt incredible and he felt almost guilty for enjoying it. Truthfully, he was just glad to feel something again. The pain erased the disquieting memory that had brought him out there in the first place. He no longer saw Dorian reflected in his sister’s memory—no longer feared the differential outcome.

The bear snapped at him from his right and he elbowed it rather harshly in the muzzle, bringing his sword down in a strike that produced a hot wall of flames, singeing the bear’s side and melting the snow at their feet. Damien struck through the flames at they dissipated, the blade of his greatsword digging into the rib cage of his huge opponent. The bear roared in response, angered rather than deterred, rising up on its hind legs, towering over the Inquisitor.

Damien took a step back, preparing to dodge, but tripping on the edges of the snow that had gone untouched by his attack. Falling backwards, he brought his sword up to shield his face in preparation, his heart skipping a beat when he realized this could easily be the end of the line for him—he was without armor about to be crushed by something ten times his size. Another low laugh escaped him as his body hit the snow, pain coursing through his nerves from every scratch and gash he had acquired.

The blow never came—instead Damien was met with a rather intense flash of fire engulfing his field of vision. The bear was thrown into its side, scrambling to get to its feet before backing off. Damien pushed himself up, the familiar feeling of a barrier being cast on him humming across his skin, the Fade washing over him. He glanced back to find Dorian standing just back and to this right, flames surrounding his hands and a wild look in his brown eyes.

“Inquisitor—beg pardon, but what in GOOD FUCK are you doing?!”

Damien just laughed in response, diving back in on the bear’s injured side and driving his greatsword through its neck, pulling up with all of his strength to take its head off, watching with labored breathing as its body slumped over into the snow. Every muscle in his body was screaming from exertion, but he forced himself to stay standing. The sound of someone’s boots crunching in the snow alerted him to Dorian’s approach, though he noted the mage’s steps were rather uneven.

“Go home, Dorian, before you freeze to death. You’re still drunk,” he said over his shoulder, returning his sword to his back.

“ME? Freeze to death? You’re not even wearing your armor—that tunic hardly counts as proper winter clothing. And someone had to come after you before you got yourself killed!”

“I didn’t asked you to. I’m fine. Go before you keel over in the snow and succumb to hypothermia.”

“How about a ‘oh thank you for saving my life Dorian’ or a ‘great to see you Dorian thank you for keeping that bear from crushing me like an ant’ before I go?!” The mage didn’t bother to hide the irritation in his voice, grabbing the Inquisitor's shoulder and forcibly turning the ginger to look at him.

It took him a moment to register why his hand was suddenly warm and wet, looking down to find it covered in blood—Damien’s blood, and upon further inspection, dismay overtook Dorian’s entire being as he took in his lover’s condition. The Inquisitor was covered in scratches, bite marks, and gashes—some shallow and others deeper than Dorian wanted to admit. Upon examining Damien’s freckled face, Dorian realized he was entirely unphased and the mage finally realized what this was.

“I’m  _fine._ Go home.”

“W-why this, again? What’s wrong?”

The way Dorian asked almost broke his heart and Damien’s brow furrowed, his eyes falling closed as guilt washed over him, but he knew he had to steel himself. He didn’t want to bother Dorian with it again.

“Don’t concern yourself with it,” Damien replied dismissively, ducking out from Dorian’s grasp. ”I’ll be fine in the morning. Go back to bed.”

“No. It’s dreadfully cold without you and we have yet to finish that bottle of Abyssal Peach we found in the cellar.” Dorian’s tone was indignant and it made Damien pause.

The Inquisitor looked over his shoulder at the mage again.

“And if I refuse to come, Lord Pavus? What shall you do then?”

Dorian looked almost taken aback and in the small pause that followed when the mage was lost for words—a rarity for the altus—Damien took a moment to look at him, his tan skin bathed in moonlight. Damien could just barely make out the flush of his high cheekbones, indicating his tapering inebriation, and the almost offended look in his glowing brown eyes made Damien smirk. He rarely told Dorian no—it made him feel guilty, but fuck if getting a rise out of the Tevinter scion wasn’t fun from time to time.

“I’ll drag you back—I’m sure the Inquisition scouts will get a good laugh out of seeing their illustrious Herald being pulled around by his ear like a child.”

“I’m sure I’ll get a good laugh out of seeing you try, too.”

Damien meant it as a challenge, turning and continuing on his way away from the Keep again, decidedly going to investigate Valeska’s Watch again, hoping to find more darkspawn. They were sure to put up a worthwhile fight.

“You insolent  _ass!_ ”

Next thing the Inquisitor knew, he was being knocked off balance by Dorian practically shoulder-checking him in frustration. The ginger stumbled, but caught himself, spinning around to face the mage again. Dorian was glaring at him something fierce, his entire body taut with irritation, muscles rigid and brow furrowed—it made arousal flow through the warrior’s veins this time rather than pain.

“Do it, Pavus. Drag me back. I fucking  _dare_ you.”

A frustrated hiss escaped Dorian’s lips and he lunged for Damien, pushing the ginger’s broad, unarmored chest with far more force this time, sending the warrior lurching back a few more steps, nearly taking him to the ground, but Damien recovered again, his green eyes glinting mischievously in the darkness.

“ _Kaffas_ you bastard just talk to me for once in your fucking life!”

The mage was quick to follow through with a punch, his fist connecting with Damien jaw, finally taking the warrior to the ground, his back meeting the snow rather harshly. Dorian could have sworn he heard Damien growl when his knuckles met the Inquisitor’s face and the sound made his heart skip a beat, but he tried not to let it distract him from his rage, throwing another punch.

“Not my strong suit,” Damien retorted harshly, easily catching Dorian fist and sweeping his leg under the mage, taking Dorian’s legs out from under him and sending the altus into the snow before pushing himself back onto his feet. The Inquisitor put some distance between them again, rubbing at his jaw where Dorian had hit him, the soreness that had already settled in his bones making him smirk.

“We can’t fucking help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong!” Dorian snarled as he pulled himself back to his feet, looking absolutely ravaging with rage boiling under his skin and sweat dripping from his forehead, his normally well-groomed hair falling loosely over his gleaming eyes.

“Maybe I don’t want help! Maybe I want it to hurt! I deserve it, don’t I?!”

“ _Fasta vass_ what do we have to do to convince you otherwise?!” Dorian barked, seeing red.

His next blow came in the form of a fortified punch, mana surrounding his fist he charged at the Inquisitor, throwing his weight behind his punch as it connected with Damien’s chin this time, sending the warrior flying into the nearby cliffside.

The Inquisitor connected with the wall rather fiercely and Dorian almost regretted putting too much power behind that punch, but he heard Damien let out a breathy laugh as the warrior recovered, pushing himself upright and reaching to touch his lip, his fingers coming back coated in blood. The masochistic grin Damien sported as he stood, his freckled face and glistening lips emphasized by the moonlight, made heat light up Dorian’s nerves, momentarily distracting him from his emotions.

Damien took the opportunity to practically throw himself against Dorian, taking the wind out of the altus’ lungs and knocking the mage into the snow again. Damien was quick to join him on the ground, pinning him there, their labored breathing filling the space between them.

“Give up and leave me be.”

“Like hell I will you stubborn bastard,” Dorian growled, pulling against the warrior’s grasp, but finding his attempts at escaping futile. The mage looked up at the Inquisitor, admiring how his broad, muscular chest rose and fell rapidly as he caught his breath, a pang of arousal shooting straight to his core when his brown eyes met Damien’s green eyes, clouded by lust.

Their lips crashed together in a searing kiss and Dorian tasted the metallic flavor of blood from Damien’s split lip, a shaky whine escaping the mage’s mouth when the Inquisitor bit harshly at his bottom lip before swiping his tongue along it, still having presence of mind to ask for permission, at least. It almost made Dorian laugh, but the thought was quickly swept from his mind when their tongues tangled, Damien’s free hand moving to Dorian’s hair, pulling his head back roughly to expose his neck.

The sound Dorian made was one he’d never admit came out of his mouth at the sensation, his skin growing hot even in the freezing cold as Damien kissed and licked at his neck, sinking his teeth into Dorian’s collarbone before soothing it with his tongue. The mage gasped, and felt Damien’s grip loosen, taking the opportunity to wrench his wrists free and flip the warrior under him and into the snow.

“Not here—it’s far too cold.” Damien let out an irritated grunt, knowing the mage was right, the snow at his back making his skin go numb. Dorian lifted his weight off of the Inquisitor, not bothering to help the ginger up as he turned.

“And just for being a beautifully stubborn pain in my ass, if you want me, you have to catch me, my dear Inquisitor.”

Damien sat up, watching Dorian move away for a moment as he willed himself to calm down. It was when Dorian Fade-Stepped away back through the doors into the Keep that Damien pushed himself onto his feet with a purpose, realizing he was at a disadvantage. Cursing under his breath, he took off at a full sprint—or as close to one as he could get in the snow, eventually reaching the gravel path inside the keep and becoming more sure of his footing.

Dorian came back within his sights just ahead of him, heading up the stairs into the next courtyard, his gait slow, but purposeful. Damien’s eyes narrowed as he got closer, knowing catching Dorian couldn’t be  _this_ easy and he slowed, keeping his eyes trained on the mage as he made it to the landing and disappeared out of the Inquisitor’s line of sight again.

This routine of Damien growing closer and Dorian Fade-Stepping away and disappearing continued almost all the way back to camp until Damien chose to take a side path through the snow-covered brush, hoping to make the mage think he had lost his lover and was in the clear. He watched Dorian move rather assuredly through the inner ward towards the Inquisition tents and Damien crept closer with a smirk, pushing himself out of the undergrowth and pinning Dorian against the wall with a growl, pressing his strong forearm against the mage’s throat.

Dorian let out a surprised yelp, but it was warped into a low groan when Damien shoved his knee between Dorian’s legs.

“You’re mine.”

Two simple words stirred up a plethora of emotions inside the mage. Damien’s breath was warm on his skin and the lack of air was blurring the edges of his vision. He gulped down air when Damien finally relented, replacing his arm with his teeth and lips and the press of the Inquisitor’s knee against his crotch made his cock twitch.

Neither Dorian nor Damien knew quite how they ended up back in the Inquisitor’s tent, but clothes and armor were soon scattered on the floor and he was pressing Damien into the bedroll, pinning the warrior down by his hips, his tongue laving over the head of the Inquisitor’s cock. Damien shuddered under him, the ginger carding his hand roughly through Dorian’s dark hair, his head falling back when Dorian took as much of him as he could, a moan falling from his bloodstained lips.

Dorian relished in the sound, savoring the way it rumbled up from his scarred chest—normally Damien was cautious about the sounds he made outside of his own room at Skyhold, afraid of who would hear. It was rare he let out more than a bated breath when they were fooling around at camp and Dorian intended on making sure he  _didn’t_ stay silent tonight. The mage let his teeth drag ever-so-slightly on his upstrokes, forcing back a smirk when the Inquisitor growled, sitting up on his elbows to look at the man between his legs with a mixture of admiration and primal desire.

Damien was quick to pull Dorian by his hair off of his dick, smirking when the mage whined at the sting left behind before dragging him up so their lips could meet again, tongues and teeth clashing again. Their cocks knocked together when Dorian settled between Damien’s legs, causing both of them to groan. The Inquisitor reached up, taking both in one hand, stroking slowly and smiling when Dorian quivered, thrusting into his grip.

The Inquisitor was quick to flip them, keeping his stroking steady as he pinned Dorian beneath him, his lips going to nibble at Dorian’s ear. The mage dragged his nails down Damien’s chest, leaving angry red marks behind to join the other scratches he had, smirking when Damien hissed, biting down into the altus’ neck in return and causing Dorian to gasp.

There was a scramble for the lube, but next thing Dorian knew a cold, wet digit was pressed against his entrance, tracing it teasingly and making him whine impatiently, glaring at the man above him. Damien smirked—a nearly punchable offense and Dorian considered it for a split second before Damien pushed his finger inside, making Dorian’s mind go blank.

The warrior knew him far too well and he worked two and then three fingers inside of the Tevinter scion quickly, making him squirm and claw at Damien’s back, desperate pleas falling from his kiss-swollen lips. The Inquisitor took a moment to admire the mess he had made of the mage— _his_ mage. Dorian’s brown eyes were blown wide with desire and his hair was a tousled mess, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he got lost in the desire coursing through his veins.

Damien interlaced his marked hand with one Dorian’s, thrusting into him all at once—a taste of the roughness from earlier returning, making the mage see white for a moment. The ginger’s thrusts were fast and calculated and sharp,  the precision and skill of the movements of his hips were matched only by his swordsmanship and it made Dorian see stars. The Inquisitor’s name fell from the mage’s lips like a prayer over and over again with each subsequent thrust hitting just the right spot and Dorian realized Damien had to have had it—had  _him_ memorized by now and it made him smile. Damien relished in the way his name breathlessly left Dorian’s lips, giving the mage’s hand a squeeze in return.

Dorian could feel the warmth of the Anchor on his palm and it grounded him, his head falling back and wanton moans falling from his lips that the Inquisitor easily pulled out of him, Dorian’s brown eyes fluttering shut when Damien changed the angle of his hips just a bit, hitting deeper inside of him than before. The mage was sure he’d be bruised tomorrow, but all traces of worry that may have been present slipped from his mind when the Inquisitor’s free hand came up to stroke the Dorian’s cock in time with his thrusts.

Moments later Dorian came undone, barely registering Damien digging his face into the crook of his neck as he spilled inside the mage, biting into his shoulder to keep quiet, though the satisfied groan that slipped through anyway made Dorian smile through his orgasm-induced haze.

They both sat still for a few seconds, catching their breath, Damien pressing gentle kisses over the bite marks he had left behind on Dorian’s tan skin, including the one he just made. When he sat up, he looked at Dorian almost apologetically, dejection reflected in his green eyes.

Rather than addressing it, Dorian settled for letting mana flow through his hand, pressing his palm to Damien’s injuries—most had stopped bleeding, but they were still an angry red color and he wanted to soothe the sting. The Inquisitor let out a sigh of relief as he felt the muscle and tissue repair itself, a chill running down his spine.

The mage let his hand travel over every dip and curve of Damien’s body that he knew so well, feeling the warrior’s muscles flex under his touch as he healed the wounds, any leftover aggression between the two of them dissipating.

“I saw her, when I saw you on the ground,” Damien whispered, taking the hand Dorian had on his body and bringing it up to his mouth, kissing the mage’s energized palm.

“Why the numbness—the pain? Your father has forgiven you and you know full well you can’t change what happened, amatus. As I recall, you’re a rather large proponent of that fact.”

“I know—now it’s less about blaming myself and more about the fear of it happening to you, too.”

“But it didn’t—not this time,” Dorian gently reminded him, laying back and watching as the Inquisitor pulled out of him, moving to the nearby washbasin to grab a wet cloth. “You protected me like you always have. I wasn’t afraid.”

“But one day—what if I’m not there? What then? I don’t think I can make it through losing you, too.”

Dorian’s heart clenched in his chest at Damien’s tone—like that of a frightened child—but above all the Inquisitor just sounded tired.

“Promise me you’ll stop this, at least—forgive yourself for the mistakes you’ve made, amatus, and come to me when you’re hurting. That’s all I ask.”

Damien paused, looking back at Dorian for a moment, his expression soft. He relented, finally giving the mage a small nod before heading back to their bed—a gesture that made Dorian’s heart skip a beat. The Inquisitor— _his_ Inquisitor was finally allowing himself to heal and that’s all Dorian wanted.

The ginger curled up with his chest to Dorian’s back once he had cleaned them up, nuzzling Dorian’s dark hair affectionately. Dorian was glad for the warmth his lover was radiating, pulling the bearskin blanket further over them as they settled in, both of them drifting off soon after. One day Dorian hoped maybe Damien would forgive himself fully—would stop being haunted by the demons of his past that clung to his back, but for now, this was a start.


	5. The Good in Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old wounds, new scars, and a healed heart. Damien finally escapes the hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [The Good in Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMTUGupx83g) by Jon Bellion, a song I hold very close to my heart. Now, we wait for DA4. 
> 
> Warnings: mild Trespasser spoilers -Valk

Dorian had never realized just how extensive the scars from the Anchor were until he was laying naked next to Damien, dozing in their post reunion-sex haze. It had been 6 months since the Exalted Council and as promised, Dorian had returned to Tevinter.

Much to his surprise, a few months after, he had received an eluvian of all things, likely stolen from either Skyhold or the Winter Palace upon their departure for the last time. Tucked into the delicate, aged golden frame had been a note stating the warrior was determined to find his way through the Crossroads to his desired exit—which was wherever Dorian was. It took Damien a few months of experimentation, but eventually he found his way through, greeting Dorian with a smile as he appeared through the looking glass for the first time with a delighted, triumphant laugh.

Damien had been quick to draw Dorian into a kiss and the mage couldn’t help, but hum in delight. He had missed the lips he had spent nearly 3 years kissing. Leaving once Corypheus had been defeated had been hard enough and his exit then had been temporary then. Laying next to the warrior right now almost felt like a dream.

“Amatus, do you really think it’s wise to use an enchanted mirror of elven origin to travel when you’re currently hunting down an elven mage who’s trying to destroy the world?”

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll run into him—it would certainly make my job easier.”

Dorian snorted, raising an eyebrow as his lover lying next to him, their legs tangled and their skin sticky. Damien’s green eyes were bright—he looked far less stressed, despite his involvement in the chase to find Solas.

“This section of the Crossroads has been quiet—I wouldn’t worry too much for now,  _my love_.”

Dorian’s heart  _still_ fluttered whenever those words left Damien’s mouth and the mage smiled, tucking his head tighter against the ginger’s chest, his fingers tracing the scars on the former Inquisitor’s skin that he had come to love over the years. The mage couldn’t help, but trace the almost branch-like marks the Anchor had left; they extended over Damien’s left pec and down his upper arm, darkening the freckled skin, finally ending where what was left of his arm had stopped at his elbow.

From Damien’s elbow extended something akin to a ‘phantom limb’ as Dorian had described it upon seeing it for the first time hours ago. A hazy outline of Damien’s previous forearm sat attached to his elbow via a small arm band wrapped around the stump, the inside of the outline almost foggy before coming together to form a definitive frame of the former limb.

Dorian had had a plethora of questions about it, including its functionality and how the warrior had come across such an invention. Damien had showed him he was basically capable of doing all of the things he had been able to do before losing his arm, though he did show the mage that sometimes things phased through the limb and he had to try again to pick them up. Regardless, it was a suitable replacement he had been presented with by Dagna of all people, who had seemed to sense his oncoming plight with the Anchor and had been testing designs.

“Does it hurt anymore? Your Anchor arm, I mean,” Dorian asked quietly, the memory of Cassandra severing the limb while he and Varric held Damien coming to the forefront of his mind again, making him grimace.

“Not usually, no. I get phantom pains on occasion, but nothing I can’t manage,” Damien replied, running an idle hand up the curve of Dorian’s back before carding his fingers through the mage’s dark hair. “No need to worry.”

“Oh I intend to worry to my heart’s content. Someone has to, for your sake.”

“Maker you sound like my mother.”

“How is she, by the way? I miss that woman—quick as a whip and far more entertaining than any other Marcher I’ve ever met.”

Damien tried not to look offended and Dorian laughed at his lover’s exasperated expression. Damien couldn’t help, but grin, shaking his head.

“She’s good. I went home for a little while after everything was said and done and she hugged me for a solid five minutes at least as soon as I walked in the door. My father seemed to have recovered fully and the entire estate wasn’t in disarray, so all is well.”

“Pray tell, has Bann Trevelyan said anything else, or has he kept good on his apology?”

“Not a word. He seemed almost pleased to see me—even gave me an almost disappointed look when I left for Kirkwall to check out the estate Varric bequeathed me at the Exalted Council.”

“I take it that’s where you came from? You’ll have to show me the path through the Crossroads—I’d like to see Kirkwall.”

“I can hear Varric calling you ‘Sparkler’ already,” Damien huffed, his tone almost wistful. The ginger’s eyes had drifted closed and Dorian couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at the mage’s lips.

They could relax—at least for tonight. Damien would have to get up and face the impending continuation of the hunt for Solas and Dorian would have to go toe to toe with his fellow magisters in the coming days, but for now they laid in silence, enjoying the other’s company. Dorian almost fell asleep listening to Damien breathe, his freckled chest rising and falling gently and lulling Dorian into a light dozing state.

“Marry me?”

 _That_ made the mage sit up, pulling him rather abruptly into full consciousness as he looked over at Damien in astonishment, his brown eyes wide. Damien met the mage’s gaze evenly, determination and adoration reflected in his emerald eyes.

“P-pardon?”

“You heard me. I have the rings in my bag. We can stage it again later to get free drinks if you want, too.”

For once in his Maker-damned life, Dorian Pavus was at a loss for words. He stared at Damien for a beat, his brow furrowing as he opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out and he closed it again.

“Take your time. I’ll wait however long it takes and I’ll still love you even if you say no.”

Truthfully, it took Dorian another ten seconds to answer, but to Damien, it felt like an eternity. He watched Dorian closely, his heart racing, but his outer countenance remained calm.

Finally, a grin broke out on Dorian’s face and the mage leaned down, coaxing Damien into a passionate kiss, biting teasingly at the ginger’s lower lip, making the warrior groan.

“I’d be a fool to say no.”

“You would also miss out on a nightlong Ostwickian feast with every cheese and wine on the continent, powerful political connections, and my eternal unwavering love,” Damien quipped, pressing kisses to Dorian’s cheek and the sides of his mouth.

“I’m thinking one of those is slightly more important than the other two.”

“The political connections,” Damien asked sarcastically, eyeing Dorian playfully with a small smile. “I know I know—I get it.”

“Your love you fool,” Dorian retorted exasperatedly, shaking his head. “That’s a very resounding yes, by the way.”

“Never doubted it for a second.”

The second time Damien appeared through the eluvian—a few months before their fall wedding, he was carrying a baby, much to Dorian’s surprise. The mage had been expecting him, assuming the warrior was there to run wedding plans and invitations by him, but he had stepped through the looking glass with a small bundle in his arms. The mage gave him a quizzical look, his chocolate eyes widening in response when he realized what the former Inquisitor was holding.

“That’s… that’s a child. An  _elven_ baby, to be exact.”

Her pointed ears didn’t go unnoticed and it further perplexed Dorian as to how Damien managed to get himself into such a situation.

“ _Our_ elven baby, to be exact. I was meeting one of Leliana’s contacts in Darktown when an elven woman approached me outside of the Alienage and basically dropped her into my arms before running off,” Damien replied, his brow furrowing. ”She can’t be more than a few months old at the most. I didn’t know what to do, so I kept her for a few days and found an elven nanny and a wet nurse to take care of her. By the time we had named her, I knew it was all over. I couldn’t let her go.”

Damien was looking down at her almost fondly and Dorian approached, unable to keep a smile off of his face when the small child babbled at him happily, looking up at him with big, curious gray eyes. His heart clenched in his chest when she reached for him, to which Damien relinquished her to the mage. A choked laugh bubbled up from his chest when she grabbed at the hanging embellishments on his clothes as he held her, a smile lighting up her small face as she played. Dorian felt tears gather at the edges of his eyes and he looked up at Damien again, who was examining him reverently.

“What’s her name?”  

“We started calling her Amira. I decided we can teach her about her heritage if she so wishes, but I wanted to give her the most comfortable life I possibly could. It’s dangerous for her in Kirkwall and here, but I know we can protect her.”

Dorian nodded, fighting back tears as Amira grabbed at his robes, her small hand wrapping around his finger when he went to adjust the blanket she was wrapped in. That opened the floodgates and sobs wracked the mage’s body, tears rolling down his face. Damien was quick to brush them away gently, pulling Dorian and Amira against his chest and pressing a kiss to Dorian’s forehead.

“You have made me… far happier than I ever expected to be years ago and you somehow manage to get more wonderful with each passing day,” Damien whispered into Dorian’s hair, feeling tears gather at the edges of his eyes.

“I’m glad you got to see the day and I’m glad I got to see it with you, amatus.”

“Me, too.”

The third time, one of the many more times Damien would walk through the Eluvian smiling at him, with Amira in his arms and hope—an emotion Damien was sure he’d never feel again—in his emerald eyes, it was a week before their wedding. The trip from Kirkwall to Ostwick would take at least 4 days, maybe longer with a baby, but Amira slept quietly wrapped against Dorian’s chest for most of their trip, her eyes wide scanning the passing landscape whenever she was awake. Damien smiled whenever he heard Dorian coo at Amira, looking down at her with bright eyes and a grin on his face.

As they approached the Trevelyan estate, Dorian got hit with an intense sense of deja-vu, his mind drifting to the first time he passed through those gates, watching Damien ride ahead of him, uncertainty reflected in his emerald eyes. Now, Damien seemed content, looking over his shoulder at the mage, who smiled at him urged his horse forward, catching up to ride beside the warrior across the courtyard.

His mother was already standing at the door, waving at them as they approached, her blue eyes widening in shock when she realized her son was holding a child, instantly plucking Amira out of his arms and cooing at her in delight. Bann Trevelyan stepped out from behind his wife, giving his son an uncertain look before shrugging and moving to hug the ginger, nodding to Dorian in greeting. Dorian noted Damien’s body language was no longer tense around his father and it made a smile pull at the edges of his lips.

“A few of your friends are already here. I’ll take her—go greet them. They’re in the kitchen.”

Damien’s brown furrowed and he looked over his shoulder at Dorian, giving the magister a quizzical look, but the mage shrugged, taking the hand Damien extended towards him and leading them into the house. Laughter echoed through the doorway to the kitchen and down the hall.

Damien recognized their voices before he even stepped through the doorway, shaking his head and immediately drawing Cassandra into a hug—Damien had seen her once in the year and a half since the Exalted Council and as the new(er) Divine, she was a busy woman. She greeted him brightly, having dressed down to simpler Chantry robes and trousers, likely against the wishes of her Chantry sisters.

Bull, Krem, and Rainer stood at the nearby dining room table, examining a huge wheel of cheese. Dorian watched as Bull waved his arms around, likely trying to dissect how they could cut it and the mage snorted at his gestures, almost delighted to find that he hadn’t changed much. Varric came walking in from Dorian’s right, two bottles of wine in hand, calling out to Damien as he entered, greeting Dorian with his customary ‘Sparkler’ before setting upon pouring wine for everyone.

Josephine and Leliana appeared from the living room just behind Dorian, making the mage jump when Leliana rested a hand on his shoulder and Josephine addressed him with a cheery ‘Magister Pavus’, slipping past him to investigate the wine Varric had chosen. Finally, he heard rapid steps that he realized couldn’t possibly belong to a human and turned to watch as a rather rambunctious Mabari came trotting through the doorway, followed by a disheveled, but otherwise rosy cheeked Cullen carrying a variety of wine glasses. The former Inquisition commander thanked him when the mage moved to take some of the glassware, helping set the glasses on the counter as Varric poured. Damien ran a gentle hand across Dorian’s lower back as the warrior passed behind him to talk to Cullen, making the mage’s heart fluttered. He hoped that feeling would never fade.

Once everyone had gathered in the kitchen and half-full glasses had been passed around, Damien cleared his throat, catching everyone’s attention and they fell silent, all eyes turning to their former Inquisitor. Dorian moved closer to the ginger’s side, smiling up at him. The magister remembered most of Damien’s past speeches vividly and the man was a gifted orator, but what he said next somehow surpassed all of his past eloquently delivered dialogues.

“I’ve made a lot of speeches in my life and I’m sure you all tire of hearing my voice, so I’ll say this: To lifelong hope, healing, love, and friendship.”

His friends—some of whom had traveled thousands of miles to be there with them, echoed his sentiments, raising their glasses in unison. Dorian looked up at Damien, stifling tears that threatened to gather at the edges of his chocolate eyes. The scars on the warrior’s freckled face had started to fade and there was a light in his eyes that rivaled the Anchor that used to mark his left palm, something Dorian was glad to see after all of the years of watching him struggle and sometimes break. 

They had made it. 

 


End file.
